


Boy Who Cried Wolf

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Boy Who Cried Wolf AU, Fingering, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mates, Prompt 4: Fairytale, Shepherd Stiles, Stalker Peter, Steter Week, Steter Week 2017, Wolf Peter, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Peter is hungry. It’s a raw ache, the kind that drives Peter to hunt almost desperately. His paws pound against the earth, kicking up black dirt and fallen leaves as he runs. It’s early afternoon, sunlight streaming through the gaps in the canopy, dappling the ground. Peter can hear a herd of deer a few miles west, but deer are tricky. There are too many variables, too many antlers and hooves. He could probably pick off a few with a pack.





	Boy Who Cried Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> Steter Week 2017 - Prompt 4: Fairytale - (technically an Aesop fable)
> 
> Beta-ed by TwistedMind - ah my light, my love, she is an absolute darling. This story wouldn't be as good without her input. She is a literary goddess made mortal.

//

 

Peter is hungry. It’s a raw ache, the kind that drives Peter to hunt almost desperately. His paws pound against the earth, kicking up black dirt and fallen leaves as he runs. It’s early afternoon, sunlight streaming through the gaps in the canopy, dappling the ground. Peter can hear a herd of deer a few miles west, but deer are tricky. There are too many variables, too many antlers and hooves. He could probably pick off a few with a pack. 

 

He doesn’t have a pack anymore. 

 

Peter can hear a flock of sheep, perhaps a mile east. He changes course, looping to follow the sound of bleating. Sheep are easy; dumb, easily-led morsels. They don’t understand the importance of keeping close to the flock, staying where it’s safe. It’s after lambing season, so they’ll be plenty of sweet little morsels for the taking. One will ultimately wander straight into Peter’s claws. 

 

He slows, slinking down to the edge of the field, where he settles, prepared to wait and watch. The field is full. There are fat, round sheep ready to be gutted, and Peter licks his muzzle at the thought of all that sticky, delicious blood dripping from his teeth. He scents the air and picks up something…

                                                 interesting. 

 

The scent of a boy on the cusp of manhood. A sugar spun delicacy with a citrus undertone, a lemon sharpness. Peter breathes through his mouth, the hunger in his gut replaced with an overwhelming desire to bury his face  _ (his human face) _ in the neck of whomever owns this delicious scent. 

 

A boy wanders into view, shepherd’s crook hanging from hands with loose wrists. He has pale, supple flesh dotted with moles Peter could easily trace with his tongue. The boy has orchid petal lips that Peter wants to see kiss-swollen, or fall open with pleasure. 

 

Biting into that boy’s flesh will be so much sweeter than mutton.

 

Unfortunately  Peter has more pressing things to attend to. But not here; he doesn’t want to alert the sweet boy to his presence. He’ll head for a farm down the way, steal a chicken or two. He’ll come back later, find a good spot for careful observation. This matter requires delicacy and patience.

 

Peter has always been a patient man. 

 

//

 

Peter watches the boy  _ (his boy) _ for a few hours each day. It becomes clear that this boy is not suited to the monotony of shepherding. His boy is a curious thing, interested in the world around him, in books and knowledge and learning. Not that he doesn’t pay attention to his flock. He makes sure they’re all accounted for, that they’re healthy and well attended to. His boy has such capable hands. 

 

It takes a few weeks for Peter to learn his boy’s name. Another boy, with tousled dark hair and tanned skin, comes to visit. He calls Peter’s boy ‘Stiles’. It rolls off the tongue, sticky like toffee. 

 

Initially, Peter worries about the interloper. He has to restrain himself from tearing out Scott’s throat. Peter dislikes the way he touches Stiles. It’s familial, a brotherly push, but Peter doesn’t want anyone else’s scent on his boy. 

 

His claws dig into the dark earth, lips pulled back into a snarl when Scott pushes Stiles into the river. Stiles emerges sputtering, cursing his laughing friend. He splashes at Scott, who leaps out of the way. Stiles clothes, soaked through, cling to his form, revealing how lithe he is beneath the layers. Peter tilts his head, dragging his gaze over Stiles’s wet body to memorise every detail. The droplets dripping from the long eyelashes. The delicate curve of his clavicle. 

 

Stiles pulls himself up the bank, struggling slightly, and Scott leaps forward to help. Stiles grabs Scott’s forearm, lip curling into a sly smile before both boys tumble back into the water. Peter snorts. Clever boy. 

 

Scott and Stiles climb out, shoving at each other. Stiles looks down at his wet clothing, and Scott shrugs, shimmying out of his trousers. Stiles’s nimble fingers fumble over the buttons of his shirt. When he wrings it out, Peter can see how toned his arms are. His boy is strong. Peter shifts among the bushes, causing a rustle of leaves. Stiles looks up at the sound, eyes darting over the surroundings. Peter hunkers lower to avoid detection. 

 

//

 

Stiles has never wanted to be a shepherd. When he was three he wanted to live in the river, thought that if he wished really, really hard he would turn into a fish. When he was seven, he wanted to go to the moon. The moon was big and bright and so far away from this tiny, boring village. When he was twelve, he learned that the moon did not emit it’s own light, but was a reflection of the sun’s rays. Sometimes he feels like the moon, a reflection of everyone else.  When he was fourteen, his father told him about expectations. Stiles frequently feels like he falls short of expectations. At seventeen, Stiles is cornered. Penned in by the very fence keeping the sheep from wandering. The crook in his hands is decades old, heavy from the weight of generations woven into the wood. 

 

Now, at eighteen, Stiles feels watched. It’s a unwelcome sensation. Makes him feel exposed. Vulnerable. Almost like his belly is bare to something predatory. His dad says he’s being paranoid, that only interacting with sheep is making him jumpy. 

 

Stiles isn’t sure what to believe, but when he looks to the forest, he can’t help but feel that something is looking back. 

 

//

 

Peter needs to provide a stable home for Stiles. The farm Stiles resides on is a mess of activity. Stiles father employs various farm hands, and most of them tolerate Stiles in the sense that they are polite, but they’re not his friends. They don’t invite him to eat with them or include Stiles in their free time. Apart from Scott, who visits because he’s a vet in training, Stiles has no one. His poor boy is desperately lonely. 

 

Peter finds the perfect plot of land. Somewhere defendable, close to water with fertile soil. For the first time since the last snowmelt, Peter shifts back to human. He’s a little uneasy on his feet, unused to only two. Unused to his hands. He stretches out his fingers out until the feeling comes back. He traces plans for the house  _ (their den)  _ in the dirt with his left forefinger, smiling when he thinks about reading with Stiles in the living room, cooking for him in the kitchen, taking him apart in the bedroom. 

 

He’ll need to gather materials, which might require a trip to the village. It will be worth it later when he has Stiles in his arms. Peter’s lip curls as his plan comes together.

 

// 

 

Stiles wishes Scott could visit more. Not that he wishes the animals were sick. but he wants someone to talk to. The farm hands don’t like him, their annoyance thinly veiled. He’s too loud, too brash, his thoughts too many and hard to follow. Often he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, with more anxiety than his body knows what to do with. His bones feel hollow, like spun glass. 

 

He wants to be touched. Not even sexually; he just wants someone to hold him. Wishes he had the opportunity to meet people, but John rarely sends him into town and he certainly isn’t expected to go to market. Stiles draws the line at talking to sheep. He needs something that can actually hold a conversation. 

 

When the opportunity to visit town comes, Stiles leaps at the chance. John needs some nails and a new hammer from the hardware store, and gives strict instructions to go there and back, no dawdling or wandering off. Stiles promises, happy to get off the farm and be amongst other people. People who might actually be glad to see him. And if he walks slowly to take it all in, well the store had a big queue. 

 

Town is bustling, full of sound and colour and smells. Stiles salivates over the sugary decadence and fine bread coming from the bakery but controls himself, knowing he doesn’t have the money for a treat. 

 

The hardware store isn’t too busy. Stiles wanders, dragging his fingertips over the edges of the shelves. He removes the list from his pocket, staring hard at his father’s chicken scratch. 

 

Once he’s figured out exactly what he needs, he heads to the counter. A man is waiting there, watching Stiles with unsubtle eyes. He’s about Stiles’s height, though much broader, with arms that look like they could easily lift several logs. Stiles drums his fingers on the counter, trying to ignore how the man casts an appreciative if calculating glance over his body. 

 

“The clerk may take a while,” the man states. Stiles turns to look at him. 

 

“Working on a big project?”

 

Stiles isn’t sure why he asks. This man gives off a strange aura, almost like when walking through the woods alone and hearing a twig snap. His gaze is intense, and Stiles feels stripped bare beneath it. Coupled with his voice, it makes Stiles think of dark chocolate and silk. 

 

“Hmm, yes. It’s going to take a while, but will be worth it when it’s done. I’m building it as a surprise.” 

 

“I’m sure they’ll be very grateful.” 

 

The man smiles, a stark contrast to the aura of power he’s giving off. It’s soft and indulgent, like biting into a piece of freshly made fudge. This man suddenly becomes approachable, gentle. Stiles is so drawn to that smile, he barely notices the clerk returning.

 

“Your items are being boxed up Mr. Hale. How may I help you, Master Stilinski?”

 

Stiles hands over the list. The clerk bustles to a nearby shelf, returning with the requested items. 

 

“Add it to my invoice,” Mr. Hale says. 

 

Stiles immediately protests but Mr. Hale waves away his concern. “I’m buying in bulk, what’s a hammer and a few nails?”

 

Stiles flushes, mumbling thanks while staring at his feet. He feels a hand beneath his chin, gently tilting his face up. Mr. Hale’s eyes up close are piercing. Like Stiles is staring at the sky, knowing that it’s endlessness should be frightening, yet captivated regardless. His whole body is tingling, the barely-there touch setting his nerves on fire. Stiles hopes that his knees don’t buckle beneath him. 

 

“You should treat yourself,” Mr. Hale murmurs. His lip curls at the edge of his smirk, hungry and dangerous, as he lets go of Stiles’s chin. Stiles swallows audibly, collecting his things and bidding a hasty goodbye. 

 

The image of Mr. Hale’s smiles stay with him all the way home. 

 

//

 

Peter barely restrained himself in the hardware store, almost grabbing Stiles and flinging the boy over his shoulder. But he needs to wait, needs to build his den first, to continue to observe and plan. Still, being able to reach out and touch, if only for a moment, was intoxicating. Stiles’s pale skin allows for such a delicate flush. Such a darling boy. 

 

Peter watches from his vantage point in the bushes, his muzzle resting on his paws. Stiles is making a daisy chain, nimble fingers weaving with ease. Peter likes Stiles’s hands. He wonders what they would feel like running through his fur. 

 

He wonders what they’d feel like wrapped around his cock. 

 

//

 

Stiles thinks about Mr. Hale--about the smirk, the smile, his hands, shoulders, voice. Stiles has always been fluid in his attraction, but something about Mr. Hale makes him feel hot and needy and nervous. Not so much butterflies in his stomach as a flock of starlings. 

 

His hand slips beneath the covers. He trails his nails along his torso, quick and light, his skin tingling pleasantly. He slips his hand lower, under his waistband. He bites his lip to avoid gasping as he touches himself, a loose grip designed to smear the precum along his length. He curls his fingers into his pubic hair, tugging a little. It stings, but the low burn of arousal in his gut is worth it. 

 

Stiles thinks about Mr. Hale pressing against his back, a strong arm around his waist to keep him close and upright. Stiles flicks his left nipple before rolling it between his fingers. Imagines Mr. Hale doing it, pictures that sinful mouth nipping at his neck while thick fingers pluck at his sensitive nipples. Stiles grips himself tighter now, and there’s a rhythm to his strokes. Mr. Hale’s hands are so big they’d look obscene around Stiles’s dick, bringing him all the way up to the edge but not letting him tip over. 

 

He thinks that Mr. Hale likes to tease. Would like to push until he’s a needy mess, begging for release. Stiles’s teeth dig into his lip as he fucks his fist at the thought of Mr. Hale whispering in his ear, telling him he’s such a good boy, letting Mr. Hale play with him. Stiles wants to be a good boy so badly. His strokes are getting sloppy, a little rushed as he leaks all over his hand.

 

Stiles whines, turning to hide his face in the pillow. He’s close, but holding off as long as he can, wrapped up in the fantasy, in Mr. Hale biting his neck and shoulder, leaving dark bruises that everyone will see; pinning him down, holding him in place. Stiles isn’t allowed to move unless Mr. Hale says so, can’t come until he’s proven how good he is at taking orders. Cradled against that firm body, Mr. Hale rubbing his cock over Stiles’s entrance, making him all desperate and wet. 

 

With that Stiles into coming, soaking his hand. He flops against the mattress, breathing heavily. He’ll have to clean himself, but for now, he enjoys the mess. 

 

//

 

Peter wipes sweat from his brow. The summer sun is unforgiving, the mid-July heat thick and muggy. The foundations are finally done, so building from here will be quicker, though this heat is making Peter tired and irritable. He takes a walk to the nearby river, dunking his head. He scoops water with his hand to drink.

 

The snap of a branch alerts him to a nearby presence. On the other side of the river, he hears Stiles’s voice, along with the irritating one belonging to his friend. He sheds his human skin, slipping into some bushes nearby to watch. 

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, coming to the bank and kicking his shoes off. “It’s probably nothing, but I feel like I’m being watched when I’m in the field.”

 

“The sheep?”

 

Stiles shakes his head, sitting on the bank and dipping his feet into the water. “No, it feels… I don’t know, but it’s not the sheep. It feels wilder. Dangerous.”

 

“I think you’ve spent too long in the sun.” Scott cuffs Stiles on the back of the head, slipping down beside him. Stiles stares at the rushing water, chewing his lip.

 

“Maybe.”

 

Peter runs his tongue along his fangs. So Stiles can sense his presence. It’s heady, knowing his chosen mate is aware of him despite not being able to see him. Peter slinks away, determined to finish their den. 

 

//

 

The Summer Festival is the one day a year Stiles looks forward to. The farm has a stall to sell their wares but Stiles isn’t responsible for it, and is allowed to wander the festival with Scott. It’s the best day of the year. 

 

The air is thick with the scents of meat and sugar. Stiles meanders through the stalls, taking in the other farms’ produce and local merchants’ wares. The Summer Festival encourages all of Beacon County to come out and celebrate, and Stiles enjoys being lost in a crowd. 

 

Stiles weaves through the throngs, looking for the pressed apple stand where Scott is supposed to be waiting. Someone jostles into him from behind and he trips, windmilling into someone’s chest. It’s a firm chest. They help him stand, grip firm on his shoulders. 

 

“Hello Stiles.” 

 

“Hello Mr. Hale,” Stiles replies, aiming for unaffected.

 

“Please, call me Peter.”

 

Stiles nods, hyper-aware of the weight and heat of Peter’s hand. Peter squeezes his shoulder before letting go. “How’s your project going, Peter?”

 

“It’s going well. Took a while to get everything together, but it’s going a lot smoother now.”

 

“That’s good. Have you just moved to town?”

 

Peter chuckles. “I used to live around here but I’ve… been away for a while. It’s good to be back.”

 

Stiles nods, unsure of how to keep the conversation going. The starlings are back, flitting about his stomach ferociously. 

 

“Can I buy you something to eat?” Peter asks, apropos of nothing. Stiles splutters. 

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

Peter pulls Stiles flush against his side, shepherding him in the opposite direction of the pressed juice stand. “I insist, Stiles. My treat.” 

 

Stiles has never had the opportunity to indulge this way. The farm is by no means short of money, but John doesn’t believe in wasting money on unnecessary frivolity. Peter seems more than happy to let him be greedy, glowing whenever Stiles lets himself be spoiled. Stiles isn’t sure where this kindness comes from, and worries that if he asks it might disappear like a soap bubble. 

 

So he nibbles his chocolate eclair, moaning when at the taste of fresh cream. Peter smiles at him before leaning forward to wipe away a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Stiles face warms as Peter sucks the chocolate from his thumb, eyes glued to Stiles’s mouth. 

 

Peter lets Stiles lead him around the fair, seemingly fine with Stiles chattering nonstop. He listens, responds with thoughtful answers, keeps up with Stiles mind and his snark. Stiles feels completely understood. It throws him off kilter. Slightly.

 

Eventually, he realises that he was supposed to meet Scott and apologetically takes his leave. Peter buys him another eclair for later, saying that he’ll see Stiles soon, but doesn’t clarify when. Stiles leaves with a crush blooming in his heart and Peter’s intense gaze following him through the crowd. 

 

// 

 

Peter puts the last nail in the porch, and then leans back on his heels. He pats the wood affectionately. 

 

The exterior of the house is done. 

 

// 

 

September arrives, crisp and orange and tense. The sense of being watched lessened over the Summer, but returns in full force in Autumn. Stiles has stopped holding the shepherd's crook as if it were a toy, and keeps it firm and ready for what’s coming. Because something  _ is _ coming. Stiles doesn’t know when, but something is coming for him. 

 

He’ll be ready when it does. 

 

//

 

His darling boy is anxious. It sours his scent and makes him skittish. He knows Peter’s watching, even if he can’t see him. Peter wonders if he should make himself known, give a tiny glimpse of the wolf to reassure his boy. 

 

// 

 

The hair on the back of Stiles’s neck stands on end, a prickling sensation that makes him go still. He rolls his shoulders, tightening his grip on the crook. He turns, slow and steady. 

 

The late afternoon sun, low in the sky, shines through the forest, the last of the autumn leaves fluttering in the breeze. Stiles breath catches in his throat. Heart pounding, rapid and erratic and loud in his ears.

 

There’s a wolf in the bushes. 

 

It’s big. Hulking, with russet fur dappled by the setting sun. Eyes a violent shade of red watch Stiles with an unnerving intensity. Its muzzle curls in a facsimile of a smirk. Stiles won’t be able to outrun it. In the split second before he starts screaming, he wonders if this is how he dies. 

 

//

 

Peter is gone before the farm hands arrive. His boy has quite a set of lungs. Peter is looking forward to hearing them in other circumstances. More pleasurable ones.

 

//

 

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong,” John says, putting the bowl of soup down in front of his son. “I’m just asking if you’re sure it wasn’t a big dog?”

 

“It wasn’t a dog,” Stiles mutters into his soup. John sits down opposite him, reaching for the salt and pepper.

 

“OK, son, but there aren’t any wolves in these parts. Not anymore. And if there were, one on its own without a pack wouldn’t survive very long.”

 

Stiles twirls his spoon in the soup, saying nothing. 

 

“I know we didn’t get around to replacing our sheepdog after lambing season, but would you feel better if you had a dog out there with you?”

 

Stiles shrugs.“Yeah, maybe.”

 

The rest of the meal is silent. Stiles goes to bed immediately after, though he doesn’t sleep. He sits in bed, knees tucked to his chest, and stares out the window. He looks up at the night sky and the curve of the new moon. He doesn’t know when he finally falls asleep. 

 

//

 

They can’t look for a dog til the day after next, so Stiles is in the field alone. He keeps the sheep away from the fence near the forest. Small noises set him off. He’s jumpy. Nervous. Hyper aware of his surroundings, like his skin is bursting at the seams with tension. 

 

The wolf arrives before the sun sets. The fear spreads through Stiles veins once more, a sickening shot of adrenaline. Those eyes. Spilt blood. A cut open pomegranate, seeds spilling. Glittering and brazen. The wolf licks its teeth. A razor thorned maw, able to snap Stiles’s bones with ease. 

 

Stiles knows he’s screaming, but it’s disconnected and he can’t hear himself. He takes a step back, stumbling and tripping. He hits the ground with a thud. 

 

His father appears, helping to pull him to his feet. John checks him over, patting him down as if making sure Stiles still has all his limbs. 

 

The wolf is clearly long gone. 

 

//

 

Stiles isn’t sure about Chris Argent. The Argents are a hunting family going back generations, have been breeding dogs for just as long. His dogs are good, they’ve bought all their sheepdogs from the Argents’ but still there’s something about Chris that unnerves Stiles slightly. Actually the whole Argent family unnerve him somewhat, but Stiles usually only has to deal with Chris. 

 

The dull silver cages are at the back of the Argent house. The air is thick with the scent of dog, most pressing their noses to the metal to inspect the newcomers. Stiles looks over the newly trained dogs whilst Chris and John converse a few feet away, dragging his hand along the bars so that the dogs get a good sniff of him. 

 

“I thought you’d come get a new dog earlier,” Chris says. He’s watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Stiles can feel it on the back of his neck. 

 

“You know how time gets away from you,” John replies, “We’d probably would have left it even longer if Stiles wasn’t seeing wolves.” 

 

“Wolves?” Chris’s tone is taut like the string of a bow. 

 

“Wolf,” Stiles clarifies, turning on his heel. “Just one.” 

 

Chris narrows his eyes at Stiles. 

 

“It’s probably a big dog ,” John says. “Or my son’s overactive imagination.” 

 

Stiles looks down at his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He’s heard all this before. The wolf keeps turning up, taunting him and disappearing without a trace. Maybe Stiles is going mad. Maybe the loneliness has finally gotten to him and he’s snapped. 

 

“Victoria, why don’t you show John some of the hunting dogs?” Chris says. Victoria emerges from the back door, smiling like she’s being paid to do so. It doesn’t reach her eyes. However unnerving Stiles finds Chris, Victoria is a completely different league. He withers beneath her gaze, trying to curl back into himself as she leads John away. 

 

Chris strides over to Stiles, aiming to look non threatening. His stance is relaxed, as if Stiles is an animal that may spook at any moment. Chris puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“What did this wolf look like?”

 

Stiles shrugs though it does nothing to dislodge Chris. 

 

“Big.”

 

Chris nods, moving his hand along Stiles shoulder until he’s gripping the back of Stiles’ neck. A bitter tang fills Stiles mouth. Chris is unyielding, keeping Stiles in place yet seemingly believing he is providing some sort of stability. Stiles doesn’t feel stable, he feels cornered. 

 

“Anything else about this wolf that seemed  _ unusual _ .” 

 

Stiles skin crawls when Chris says unusual. Stiles isn’t sure what this wolf wants, why it’s taunting him by not attacking and yes, on some level it terrifies him because it’s a giant wolf with sharp teeth and red eyes. But here, amongst whining dogs and Chris’s iron clad grip, Stiles is overwhelmed with the desire to keep his mouth shut. He stops slouching, pulls himself up to his full height. 

 

“I don’t know, it was big and brown. Dad’s probably right, it was probably a big dog.”

 

Chris tilts his head, critical and assessing. 

 

“Right, well if you should see this big dog again, you come running. I’ll be glad to help you out.” 

 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

 

“All the same,” Chris says, squeezing Stiles neck before letting go, heading back into the house. Stiles rubs the back of his neck. Chris pauses in the doorway, turning his head so that Stiles catches every word. 

 

“I’m good at putting down rabid dogs.” 

 

//

 

John has put Ethan on shepherding duty for the time being, sending Stiles into town on errands or just letting him wander off on his own. Stiles keeps away from the woods, doesn’t go looking for the wolf. In a test of strength, he’s definitely going to lose. Furthermore, the wolf hasn’t done anything except stare at him and possibly mock him for his fear. Stiles is being played with, to some extent. 

 

For once, Stiles would like to get out of his own head for a bit. All this uncertainty, all this doubt and confusion is frustrating. He’s tired of analysing, coming at the problem from every angle and failing to find an answer or solution. 

 

He’s in town, picking up a new saw when he sees Peter in the window of the bookshop. Peter smiles when he spots Stiles, raising a hand in greeting. Stiles heads inside. He loves the bookshop. The smell of paper and ink, familiar and new. He wishes they had more money for books, he could easily purchase the entire store if given the opportunity. 

 

“Hello Stiles,” Peter says. His voice is soft, warm and inviting. Stiles feels himself stepping closer into Peter’s space. 

 

“Hi, I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

 

“I’m good, all the better for seeing you.”

 

Peter touches Stiles elbow as he says this, causing Stiles to duck his head to hide his blush. 

 

“How have you been?”

 

“Alright.”

 

Peter tilts his head, frowning slightly. He touches Stiles chin with a tender care, gently pushing it up so that he can look Stiles in the face. 

 

“You’re lying, dear boy don’t lie to me.”

 

“I’m fine, honest.”

 

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Come along,” He says, ushering Stiles from the shop. “Let’s have something to eat.”

 

Peter buys a selection of food before taking Stiles to a small clearing a little way inside the forest where they can sit and eat together away from prying eyes. The late October chill causes Stiles to sit close to Peter, watching him to put together interesting combinations to make large delicious looking sandwiches. Peter hands one over. Stiles takes a big bite, moaning happily. 

 

“Will you be honest with me now?”

 

Stiles takes another bite to prolong his answer. 

 

“I’m ok, just. I don’t know, I don’t think my father trusts me anymore. He keeps thinking I’m lying to him, seeing something that isn’t there. I’m just tired of not being believed.” 

 

“What are you seeing?”

 

“A wolf.”

 

Peter hands Stiles another sandwich. Stiles eats this one slightly slower, in a somewhat melancholy fashion. 

 

“I believe you.”

 

Stiles looks up, so shocked his mouth drops open and a piece of cheese almost drops out. He manages to maneuver his tongue to catch it before he makes a complete fool of himself.  

 

“You do.”

 

“Yes sweetheart. I’m sorry your father is being difficult, that you feel isolated and ignored.” 

 

Peter reaches forward, cupping Stiles cheek and sweeping his thumb over tenderly. 

 

“I would never make you feel that way,” Peter murmurs, eyes flicking down to Stiles mouth. 

 

Stiles closes his eyes, for just a second, trying to commit this to memory. He wants to savour it as much as he can because he can’t have this. His father is never going to agree to this kind of union, is never going to allow him to leave the farm which is his birthright. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles mumbles, clambering to his feet and fleeing. 

 

//

 

Peter lets his boy go. He knows that Stiles wants this, is desperate for this, the poor lamb. The den is ready. Peter is ready. 

 

He’ll take his sweet mate soon. 

 

//

 

They don’t get a dog, and Ethan is sent back the orchard. Stiles does not trust Chris Argent. No matter the man’s intentions, good or otherwise, Stiles knows that there’s something off about him. 

  
No one is going to come running. No one is going to save him. Stiles is going to face this wolf alone. 

 

It’s All Hallows Eve. Usually John gives Stiles the day off so they can carve pumpkins together but Stiles insists on returning to the field to look after the sheep. The rams were introduced at the beginning of October, Stiles hopes the plethora of sharp horns will be a deterrent to the wolf but somehow he knows it won’t be. 

 

Sunset. The sky is streaked with orange. Thick white clouds tinged pink at the edges. Stiles is about to herd the sheep into the barn for the evening when the back of his neck prickles. He rolls his shoulders, gripping his crook tightly as he turns.

 

The wolf slinks under the fence into the field, teeth bared in a facsimile of a grin. Stiles bares his teeth in response. His heart is beating so hard it may break his ribcage but he’s determined not to back down. He’s tired of being played with. He’s sad and alone and unable to have what he truly wants. He’d rather this wolf eat him and be done.

 

“I’m not afraid of you.”

 

The wolf tilts its head. The gaze is calculating. Almost as if it’s about to open its mouth and point out that he’s lying. Stiles shuffles from foot to foot.

 

“What do you want? To eat me? Just go ahead, no one believes you’re even real. I’m all alone out here, no one is coming to help me.”

 

Stiles drops the crook, well and truly exhausted. His head snaps up when there’s a sickening crunch, bones realigning, fur rippling and retreating. It’s simultaneously beautiful and horrifying. The man that the wolf has become rolls his neck as he stands, red eyes melting into tender blue.

 

Stiles mouth drops open. “You’re completely naked.”

 

Peter chuckles. “Astute of you to notice, Stiles.”

 

Peter walks forward. Stiles is rooted to the spot, shock making him immobile. Peter touches his cheek, palm warm against Stiles skin. It’s so gentle, so poignant that Stiles blushes, filled with a desire to hide from Peter’s piercing gaze. 

 

“I never meant to scare you,” Peter murmurs, his other hand sweeping under Stiles shirt to touch the sensitive skin of Stiles’ hip. “I’ve been waiting a long time to show myself in this form. You have no idea how special you are to me.” 

 

“Special? I’m not special, what do you even want from me?”

 

“Nothing much. Your heart, your hand in marriage.”

 

Stiles snorts. “Oh just all that.”

 

Peter grins. It’s surprising how easily Stiles can see the wolf, now that he knows to look. Peter’s thumb sweeps over Stiles hip, grounding and slightly arousing. 

 

“Come home with me. Leave all this behind. You’ve never wanted it anyway.”

 

“I have obligations, to my father…”

 

“The father that ignores your cries for help, thinks you a liar. The father that lets his workers treat you with thinly veiled contempt. Darling, you deserve so much more than this. I want to give you more.”

 

Stiles knows this is all true and hates Peter for pointing it out. He wants to pull away but Peter’s touch is so comforting. He deserves to be loved, right? Deserves someone who wants to make him happy, someone who could look after him and would let Stiles take care of them in return. 

 

“The choice is up to you,” Peter says, pulling away. Stiles stifles his desperate whine. “I won’t force you.”

 

“Can you give me a day? Please? Just to sort everything out.”

 

Peter considers it for a moment before nodding. 

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow at dusk.”

 

Peter shifts back into a wolf. It’s just as beautiful and terrifying. He bounds away into the woods.

 

//

 

Stiles thinks about the last time his father hugged him just because. He thinks about when he last spent an extended period of time with someone and enjoyed it, and  wasn’t Scott. He thinks about his future--or lack thereof. He thinks about growing old. He thinks about growing old alone.

 

Peter is witty and smart. Peter looks at Stiles like he’s worth paying attention to. Like he’s important. For once, Stiles feels wanted. 

 

It turns out the choice isn’t really that hard at all. 

 

//

 

Stiles is waiting on the other side of the fence. He takes Peter’s hand without hesitation. 

 

//

 

The cabin is amazing, standing two stories tall, with wood such a dark brown it’s almost black. Steps lead up to a porch that wraps around the left side of the building. The door has a rectangular window beside it the length of the door, allowing Stiles to peer inside. 

 

Peter takes him on a tour, talking excitedly about the features and how Peter put it all together. He puts his hand over Stiles’s eyes when they head upstairs, before surprising him with an extensive library. Wall to wall wooden shelves are filled with books, except for the window, which has a comfortable window seat. There’s a three panel curving transom window above the main window. The middle panel is stained glass, two wolves howling at the moon. 

 

When Peter admits he built it for Stiles, he has to look away. Peter pulls him in close, nuzzling  before pressing sweet butterfly kisses against Stiles’s skin. Stiles turns his head to catch Peter’s mouth. The kiss is tender, though quickly becomes heated, a hair off of desperate. Stiles whines, hands twisting in Peter’s shirt. 

 

“Shall we move somewhere a little more comfortable?” Peter catches Stiles’s bottom lip with his teeth, hands sliding down lean thighs to pick him up. The show of strength sends an unexpected bolt of arousal through Stiles gut. He wraps his legs around Peter’s waist, growing addicted to the way Peter’s lips feel against his own. He pays no attention to where Peter is carrying him.

 

Peter places him carefully on the bed. The sheets feel silky against the small of Stiles back where his shirt has rucked up. 

 

“God, your scent,” Peter groans. Stiles wasn’t aware the way he smelled was anything special. Peter sets about efficiently stripping Stiles, murmuring the whole time. “Your arousal is so tantalizing, sweetheart. I’m going to take my time with you, pull you apart and put you back together.”

 

Stiles whines, squirming on the sheets. He’s hard and ready for Peter to touch him again. Peter leans down, covering him in a way that feels protective. Stiles reaches up, trailing his hands along the planes of Peter’s shoulders as teeth nip at the soft skin behind his ear before trailing down to bite and suck marks against his neck. 

 

Stiles’s mouth falls open and he drags his nails down Peter’s back. Peter’s teeth are on the edge of too sharp. A reminder of the wolf that sends an aroused thrill down his spine. His hips buck, smearing precum over Peter’s stomach. 

 

“Peter, please!” Stiles pleads. 

 

Peter thumbs at Stiles’s left nipple, continuing to suck possessive marks into the fragile skin of his neck. Stiles is hyper aware of his body, and everywhere he’s touching Peter feels feverish. 

 

“You’re so responsive,” Peter says, hand trailing down Stiles stomach. He wraps a hand around Stiles’s length, using the precum to slick the way. “My beautiful boy, my sweet mate.”

 

Stiles flushes. Peter’s explained what a mate is, how Stiles is Peter’s. Every time he hears the word, he can’t help but blush. Peter nuzzles Stiles cheek.

 

“I’m going to open you up nice and slow until you’re ready for me to fill you up. You can touch me, but I don’t want you touching yourself, understood? You can tell me to stop if it’s too intense or you need a break.”

 

Stiles nods. A slick finger traces his rim, and Peter’s other hand goes  to his nipple, rolling it as he eases the teasing finger inside. Stiles doesn’t know whether to arch up into the tingling pleasure in his chest or rock back and forth on Peter’s finger. Both sensations are tantalizing and he can’t choose between them.

 

“Does it feel good, darling?”

 

Stiles whines, unsure if he can string a sentence together. His hands clench in the sheets when the tip of a finger starts rubbing at the skin behind his balls, but it doesn't push inside. It’s a gut-wrenching kind of pleasure. 

 

A second finger eventually pushes inside, achingly slow. Peter works Stiles over with two for what feels like forever. It could be hours, it could be minutes, time doesn’t feel linear anymore. All that matters is that Peter keeps brushing against Stiles’s prostate but never pressing directly on, leaving Stiles leaking and desperate. 

 

“Please, Peter _ , please _ .”

 

“I do love it when you beg.”

 

“Stop teasing,” Stiles whines.

 

Peter chuckles against his neck, and adds a third finger. Stiles’s whole body quivers as needle sharp fangs grazing against his collarbone. Claws tease down Stiles’s thigh, leaving long pink lines. Stiles moans. He wants Peter to do it again. He barely notices the fourth finger, caught between teeth and claws. 

 

“So perfect for me.”

 

“Hurry,” Stiles moans. 

 

“Hold on a little longer sweetheart, you’re almost ready.”

 

Needy noises spill from his lips, endless, shameless begging. It seems to please Peter, who murmurs praise. He’s looking at Stiles like he would the moon, with awe and devotion. Stiles has never been looked at so reverently. 

 

Stiles pants as Peter’s fingers retreat, only to be replaced with the tip of Peter’s cock. Peter nose nudges Stiles into a delicate kiss that devolves into a messy mash of lips when the head of Peter’s cock slips inside. 

 

“I’m going to make you feel so good darling, your beautiful body was made for me.  _ You _ were made for me.”

 

Peter slides home. Stiles has never felt so full, and he loves it so much he’s already on the cusp of orgasm. Peter’s hips start to roll, dirty and slow; languidly hitting his prostate dead on, over and over, delighting in his needy panting. 

 

“I’m so close, I can’t wait, please Peter please.”

 

“It’s alright darling, you’ve been so good and patient, you can touch yourself, you can come.” 

 

Stiles grips his cock, pulling furiously. It only takes a few more thrusts from before he’s coming all over his hand and between their bellies. He feels floaty then, melted like hot syrup. He’s being held together by Peter’s touch. 

 

Peter’s thrusts speed as he chases his own orgasm.  Stiles whines at the overstimulation but he wants Peter to come. He bites down into the meat of Stiles’s shoulder, and a bond flares to life between them. Stiles can feel Peter’s orgasm like it’s his own. It feels like ecstasy. It feels like belonging wholly to someone. Peter slumps atop him after, petting his sweat slick hair. Stiles nuzzles, whining until Peter gives in and kisses him. 

 

He’s is safe and warm and loved. He’s never leaving, and nothing will ever take him away from this.

 

//

 

Peter laps at the mating bite, his hands trailing over Stiles’s sensitive skin. He’ll get up soon clean them up, but for now he revels in the scent of well-pleased mate. He belongs to Peter now, wholly and completely. His to love and cherish and adore. No one will come between them, and no one can take Stiles away. 

 

Stiles nudges Peter into a sweet kiss. His mate is oozing happiness. Peter couldn’t be more pleased. 

**Author's Note:**

> I do the tumblr - ladypigswagon  
> I am also a poet - kblairpoetry


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